Redemption Songs
by Mama Z.Jays
Summary: Following the life of Danya: from little orphan girl living in the streets and alleyways of the slums, through the torment and heartbreak of first loves, to the young radical who ultimately joins forces with Avalanche in the hopes of redeeming herself from Midgar and Shinra's corruption. T for now: may raise later.
1. PrologueAuthors Note

**A/N:**

 **Okay, I'm back! I don't know if I have any previous followers from my last story (Re: Requiem for the Lost and Forgotten) and I'm sorry for all who grew interested and invested in that one, but my voice has changed too much to continue. Like, I started it a long time ago, even before when I'd posted it. So yeah. can't continue (awkward). Anyway, I thought that I was ultimately finished with fan fiction but they announced a remake and I was like: ADASIUHIAUDSHSDU MUST WRITE MORE. So I started, and well, this is what I've created.**

 **I need to warn anyone who proceeds that this will not only be a slow burn in story development, but it's also going to heavily feature a cast of OC's for the vast majority of the first few chapters. In fact, there will be no canon characters for awhile. If that doesn't interest you - I totally get it. Click on, I won't take it personally. To all of those who remain, think of this beginning as more of an exploration of the FF7 world. I have the utmost intention of weaving the canon characters into my story, and plan on them being central to the plot, but this is not their story.**

 **If I have any old readers (hi guys!) think of this as a sort of reboot of Requiem of the Lost and Forgotten- it's completely different, but not? Ahh, whatever. Doesn't matter.**

 **Year: 0007**

There are a few who steep so low as to sift through the piles of trash pressed up against the side of the alleyway. Beyond the dangers that lie in wait under torn trash bags and broken furniture, to be seen by either a friend by an acquaintance leads to a complete ostracization from community members. While what you may see in that pile of trash is potential remedies and saving graces from a difficult life, they see a friend how has fallen too low; a friend who has now become the slum dwellers that the people above the plate see us all to be. The irony in these judgments is underneath harsh critiques, we all want desperately to be able to sneak around to scour and not be seen. Sometimes we trick ourselves into believing that there is truly too little light that comes down into the slums for us to be seen, and that there are so many of us that we can be lost, briefly, amongst the poverty for long enough for us to grab that half used potion bottle, peaking from beneath some dirty rags and rotting food. Because, god, we _need_ that potion-it could be a matter of life and death for us-and if we were quick, who would notice? But no. We cannot. We may not live above the plate, but we are above _that_. And so we walk passed that half used bottle of potion with our chins held high with our ego's intact, all while our resources dwindle and our health plummets.

These are the unsaid rules of the slums.

I feel as though the potion calls to me as I strut passed it, and there is a desperation growing in me to turn around and pounce on the potion, but I restrain myself and continue my trek homeward bound. Men on the streets call "mami, mami, give me a kiss, mami," and make kissy noises as they pucker their lips at me. Their affections, If I were to call them that, are quickly turned sour the moment I step beyond them. They call me "bitch," along with more obscenities. "You not gonna say hi back?" one shouts after me, "You not all that. You not all that." But then they all laugh, mockingly at me, as if it were all one big joke to begin with.

I pass through the marketplace, which happens to be a place that people above the plate gather, taking their fill of the slum life. Visibly wealthy teens gather in circles, lounging across storefronts while taking puffs of cigarettes and laughing loudly. The type was not uncommon. I'd talked to a few of them when I found myself curious to who they were-and how confused they seemed to be. They'd say things like, "I feel more myself when I'm here," or, "this is real life-not the fake bullshit on the plate. Money isn't everything." I'd nod along in agreement, though in reality, I'd resent them, even hate them. Why would this be better than the sky? Why would they want hardship over the ease? What benefit came from grumbling stomachs and broken personalities? The air they carried was fresh and odorless, and they bore no scars and their clothing was vibrant, even when dirty. That was enough to make me hate them. They left when they grew uncomfortable or tired, and returned when they started to grow bored of the security in the plate. We, on the other hand, could not leave so easily. And in the nights when the tourists would leave and return to their warm beds in big rooms with dressers and bookshelves and decorations, we'd still be thinking about that potion, which we really could've used.

I stop to watch a group of teenagers as the anger bubbles inside of me. I want to walk up to them and shout at them to go back to their Pizza Slice, but there are many of them and only one of me. The group is uniform in their style. Black shirts, baggy pants with buffed metal chains dangling from belt loops. Their teeth gleam white, a stark contrast to their black accessories, and I hate how they look. But part of me wishes I could look how they look, too-or not quite, but I wish I could pick my clothes. I wish I could strip myself of the bland drab of Zig's used clothing-passed to him from his the mechanic that he works with.

As a gust of wind carries the scent of Mako down to the slums, one of the kids covers his nose with his sleeve, laughs and says, "Aw, what's that smell?" The rest of the kids laugh and cough dramatically, and they decide it's best if they find a different place to sit. A surge of excitement flows through me as the group moves deeper into the slums. They are fools to think the slums are a welcoming place, and I hope that I might be able to profit off of their ignorance. I follow close behind and carefully watch their movements. They stay, I note, in the wider roads. They poke their heads into the darkened alleyways, and give nervous chuckles and they decide, no, it's too dark to chill there. They weave through dense crowds of people, talking and playing around, much to the dismay of community members who are coming home from work. On more than one occasion people scream at them to shut up and go home and they respond, mostly out of stubbornness I think, with equal aggression. They begin to quiet only when the crowds thin, as we descend into an area of the slums where no light sheds itself from the spaces of the plate, and where even the wide streets begin to shrink, the tin roofs of shacks begin to draw in on each other like ragged puzzle pieces. The green glow of the streetlights is now the only light to our path, and finally, after a minute of silence, one of two girls in the group says, "I think we should turn back." A few mutter in agreement. But another one of them, a small stout boy with a round face and red lumpy cheeks taunts, "You scared?"

"No," the girl says, "No, but it's late and I need to get home before my parents."

"Pussy."

"Don't be a dick."

The kids are unknowingly walking straight into one of the most dangerous areas of the slums. I duck behind an old crate and continue my spying from a safe distance as they head towards the road that leads into the train graveyard. They look uneasy as they ascend into the dilapidated warehouse. I hope a monster will reveal itself, here and now, pouncing on one of the kids and knocking them out cold. I'd have a short period in which I could loot them, taking money-maybe even a full bottle of potion if I got lucky. Imagine the money they carried-I'd be able to buy food for Zig and I for a week, a week without starvation, without the knots in the stomach and that turned into bitterness towards each other. But, if the monster did not reveal itself and they passed into the train graveyard unharmed. I could no longer follow them, or else I would be lost as well.

The group disappears, and I am left to listen to the echoes of their voices.

Frustrated, I slump down to sit in the mud and set my head in my hands. I should've stopped them, demanded that they pay me money. I should've puffed my chest out and screamed at them that I would kill them, I would, I would, unless they gave me money. I should've, yes, but I wouldn't have. No matter how much I wanted to be able to manipulate fear and violence, I could not. There was nowhere inside of me that could do it myself. Zig told me that it was a good thing-that it was clear-cut evidence that I was better than the slums. I told him that it didn't matter if I was better than the slums-because I was trapped in it.

Besides, I said, we were all better than the slums.

I should've gotten that potion out of the trash.


	2. Chapter 2: The Wild Boy I Loved (i)

. Year:1992

I used to love Zig desperately and uncontrollably. I still do, of course, but he's lost his grip with age. As a boy, he was smart, funny, dedicated and seemed to me to be a bright star capable of breaching the slums' high fences. He made even the meanest faces turn bright and had the innate talent of charming all who he met. He was a wonder-and it gave me hope to think that such a wonder could be homeless like me.

We had no homes to call our own, so it was natural that the homeless kids would ban together. Back when I was seven years old, before Zig, there were six of us. Three girls and three boys. We met every morning in the sector 7 playground, mostly out of some sense of normalcy rather than any kind of intrinsic affections we felt towards one another. I'd always sit on the swing set, the swing next to me empty. Mara, a little girl with big brown eyes long silky hair sat under the canopy of a fallen playset, and she'd spend hours braiding and unbraiding her hair. Daisy, the only blonde in our group, wore the same dulled blue denim dress every day and liked to sit on the far end of the sandbox. I'd watch her make dolls from sticks and bang them together at the hips, repeating obscenities she didn't understand. While the girls took to creating our own falsely presumed impenetrable havens, the boys stood their ground out in the middle of the playground in constant battle. Rudy, who was the largest of all of us, perhaps older too, I wasn't sure, would rush up to the other two brothers Marco and Antonio, frantically swinging his fists. Marco and Antonio would run away shouting the meanest taunts I'd ever heard. I hated watching the boys play, but returned every day to watch them. Only when Marco and Antonio's words got too harsh did I cover my ears and hum tuneless music to block them out.

For months we went on like that; using the same space yet barely interacting. I imagined that we were similar to a broken family, and I was content with and slightly frightened of our strange household. It wasn't until Zig showed up that I began to understand how wonderful a family could be.

The day we met Zig, however, had been especially violent-Marco and Antonio were once again taunting Rudy, calling him a freak and a beast. It was painfully clear how upset Rudy had become; he clenched his fists and his knuckles turned white as the brothers danced around him. Rudy never said much, only grunts and gurgles of words, and when he tried to speak, the brothers only teased harder. Daisy frowned and turned around with her dolls so that her back faced the boys. She shifted slightly so her ear closest to them was pressed against her shoulder, blocking out the audible frustration within Rudy's animalistic grunts. Mara watched from her post, quietly unbraiding her hair, as I desperately tried to carry a tune. But at that moment, I couldn't think of one. So I watched with a growing doom in my stomach as Rudy grew restless and began to spin his arms aimlessly, throwing all of his weight at whichever boy was closest to him. For what seemed like minutes-which might've only been moments, I watched the pitiful Rudy as he missed over and over again. Rudy's slow heavy body failed him day after day, and the nimble brothers would find new ways to rub his disfigured body in his face. Rudy never won, but I rooted for him to snatch one of the brothers.

Rudy jumped at Antonio, missed and fell face down in the dirt.

"Fat fuck," Antonio laughed, "Stay down."

Rudy slowly raised himself from the ground and spat. Rudy's shoulders began shake and at the time I had believed he was crying- as did everyone else present. Daisy, as if she'd awoken from a trance, jumped up onto her feet and yelled for the brothers to leave Rudy alone. I spoke up too, with the intention of also standing up for Rudy, but my voice betrayed me and I instead let out a long loud whine. My strange noise briefly drew the brother's attention away from Rudy and the brothers stared at me, shocked. In that exact moment it dawned on me, just as Rudy stood up and revealed his face was red with rage rather than wet with tears, that I had barely made a peep for months, and as such knew about as much as speaking as Rudy.

Rudy flung himself onto Antonio, who cried out to his brother as the two boys slammed back on the ground. "Help me, Marco," he screamed, "help me," Rudy grunted as he hit Antonio as hard as he could, and it was then that he began to cry. Rudy spoke as clearly as he could, but he still sounded like he had marbles in his mouth, "I hate you. I hate you," he said.

Marco rushed up to Rudy and Antonio and dove on top of them. He looped an arm around Rudy's neck and yelled, "Get off of him you monster!" Blood sprayed from Antonio's nose as Rudy rammed his fist into Antonio's nose, and the blood clumped into the dirt beside him. Red began to spread over Rudy's knuckles and Antonio's face, and I blinked a few times in horror thinking that my eyes had betrayed me. But no, there it was, the red and thick liquid, that only grew messier each time Rudy brought his fist down on Rudy's face-chin, cheek, nose, cheek, forehead, eye socket and nose again. Daisy started to cry first, but she managed to tell them to stop at the same time. Mara and I, on the other hand, simply cried-me, loud and ugly sounding, while Mara, as possessed, made bird-like whimpers as she re-braided her hair with quivering fingers.

That was the first moment I ever saw Zig. I heard him before I saw him, imitating the noise of one of the slum monsters. When I turned to look, there he was, perched on top of a pile of trash, his face splattered with dark brown freckles, and hair wild and kinky, the ends stuck together, one side matted and pressed up against his skull. He beat his chest and cooed up at the plate before he sprinted at the pile of boys. His clothes were tattered and smudged with dust, and he seemed to be a wild child, recently escaped from some far off land. His mere presence set my imagination ablaze as he leapt into the fight. Out of shock the fighting immediately stopped. Rudy was the first to roll out of the pile and Marco grabbed Antonio by the arm, pulling him away from the space of violence. Antonio staggered a bit and wiped some blood from his nose, and shot a glare at Rudy, who was sprawled out on the ground and panting vigorously. All that was left in the dust cloud from the fight was the smallest of the boys, Zig, sitting on his butt and beaming at all of us.

Perhaps Zig truly did not understand the danger of situation, or perhaps he did, but was already trying to create a loving environment for all of us, but all he said was, "Why'd you guys stop playing?"

Antonio wiped his nose a second time, this time noticing the blood, and he started to scream.


End file.
